


Until Death Do Us Part

by INTPSlytherin_reylove97



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Arguing, Bad Spanish, Banter, Character Death, Coffee is A Food Group, Dark Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake Blood, Fake Character Death, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Harlan Does Not Take BS, Humor, I mean this is a Knives Out Fic featuring Marta You Should Know There Will be Vomit, I was peer presurred into writing this and I accept it, I'm Sorry I'm Trying, Knives Out (2019) Spoilers, Marriage of Convenience, Marta is BADASS if you give her the chance, Maybe - Freeform, No Death...At Least Not For Right Now MWHAHAHA, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Ransom Drysdale's Sweater, Sweater Sexual, Vomiting, discussions of divorce, eventually, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INTPSlytherin_reylove97/pseuds/INTPSlytherin_reylove97
Summary: A fake marriage for the sake of inheritance?Ransom would be willing to do far worse to keep what is rightfully his.But apparently his grandfather's Brazilian goddess nurse is trickier to woo than he initally thought.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 124
Kudos: 335





	1. An Indecent Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> *creeps in slowly* Heyyyyyyy. It's me, ya girl INTP, with the angst and the humor to soothe and hurt the soul.
> 
> So some of you might know from a fandom in a galaxy far, far away and others may not, but I was convinced to write this fic because there is waaaayyyy too much potential between Marta and Ransom it hurts.
> 
> Typos will be fixed later.
> 
> Enjoy :)

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**AN INDECENT PROPOSAL**

* * *

Bile had a way of resting in the back of her throat like a warning.

A warning to not let her tongue twist into lies. Not cause a grave sin, to not allow trust to be broken.

Marta liked to believe trust was the greatest virtue—trust and honesty. Both went hand in hand, worked in tandem to bring forth transparency.

Of course this was her opinion, and Harlan’s Thrombey’s family embodied otherwise.

Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale’s arm thrown around her shoulder spoke of such varied opinion. All too strong cologne invaded her nostrils, suffocating her with a musky-cedarwood scent men seemed to adore. His blue cable knit sweater scratched against her face, the material poorly maintained, also doused in the musky-cedarwood scent that reminded her far too much of the time her sister worked at _Abercrombie & Finch _at the local mall a few summers back. Alicia would come home and immediately take a shower, both Mama and Marta finding the fragrance offensive and far too overpowering.

Anyone else, Marta would have shoved the bastard away.

Anyone else, she would have scolded. Reminded them how to treat others with respect, her long days and nights babysitting to making her far too her qualified to handle children. Or rather the immature at heart.

Anyone else, she would have walked out the door and never looked back.

However, Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale was not _anyone_. At least in the eyes of her dear friend and employer. No, he was the thorn in Harlan Thrombey’s side and astonishingly his immense joy.

Immense joy on the rare occasion, but immense joy none the less. Seemingly kindred spirits; at least, that was what Harlan claimed a few years back. Marta wasn’t too sure if he’d sing such songs any longer.

“Brazilian Goddess and I are getting hitched.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“Ransom, stop being a dipshit—”

“You’re joking right?”

“You are load of shit—you always cause trouble—”

_“Enough!”_

In the corner, sitting in his arm chair, regal and disillusioned as ever, the patriarch of the family received the rooms full attention. With a single word, loud and clear.

Harlan Thrombey was powerful in his home and he knew, not making one notion to stand from his seat.

Instead, the family unconsciously migrated towards him. Ready to listen, ready to fight, ready to receive whatever they could get. Refined scavengers in their far too expensive clothes.

“Ransom,” Harlan began, the family making a clear path for the older man to see his grandson…and Marta. She felt the urge to squirm under his scrutiny—a grilling gaze only on Ransom, but she feeling like an accomplice. “I find it odd you are making this announcement.” His hand tightened on his cane, grip steady. “I was not aware you and Marta were close, let alone spoke to each other more than a few syllables.”

“Sometimes a few syllables are enough to seal the deal.” Ransom squeezed her shoulder, bringing her closer to his side. Her form shrank under him, almost as though he were tucking her into his pocket for later, to pull out like a party trick. Maybe in a way she was a bit like a party trick at the moment— _“look at the poor, kind nurse, she’s getting swept off her feet by_ me _—the cookie-cutter prince charming! Isn’t that wonderful?”_

Harlan was less than impressed. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why don’t you ask Martha—”

“Marta,” Harlan corrected without missing a beat. “ _Marta_ , my boy.”

“Same difference.” Ransom shrugged.

Bile rose to another level, she praying it remained there and not creep past the threshold.

“That answer alone is enough to tell me all I need to know,” Harlan remarked, disappointment ringing like a bell through the entire room.

The words signified the end of Harlan’s impromptu speech, the floodgates of the Thrombey clan thrown open once more.

“You barely know how to take care of yourself and you expect us to believe you can be married,” Richard quipped, unamused by his son’s sudden announcement.

Ransom remained cool and collected, yet the muscle in his arm spasmed in the slightest instant.

“Of course I can get married! Look at Walt and Donna—” Nothing further needed to be said, the smug look on his face causing another uproar amongst the family.

“ _You are an asshole, you have always been an asshole_!” Walt quaked, face turning bright red from exertion. On the loveseat, his wife is no better—flushing and grumbling in a same fashion. “No respect—”

“Marta, are you okay?” Meg’s concerned voice sliced through the chaos, eyes locked on her.

All eyes snapped from the insolent Thrombey heir, to _her_. Vague, forced concern reflected in all their eyes, though their previous temperament still sizzled the air.

“Uh,” Marta opened her mouth, hoping to saying anything really. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Like a cannonball the bile shot through her—

_Shit_.

—and all over the antique Parisian carpet beneath her feet.

Donna gapped, averting her eyes. “Oh dear!”

“Someone— _anyone_ —get a wash towel!” Meg ordered, attempting to make her way over to Marta.

“Ew-ew-ew-ew-ew-ew-ew,” came Joni’s voice on loop, she standing up and exiting the room all together. Meg’s scolding to her mother followed her out, her path to Marta long forgotten.

More feet shuffled around the room, groans of disgust and yelling laying on top of each other in one-upmanship accompanying them.

It was then Marta noticed Ransom no longer had her in a locked hold, the cedarwood gone.

“Marta,” Harlan began, he slowly making his way over to her through his family’s circus, “my dear, go to the kitchen. Get yourself a glass of water, maybe clean yourself up,” he urged, more gentle with her than he had been with any of his kin.

She nodded, subconsciously wiping at her face. Without needing another word of encouragement, Marta left the room in a hurry, the voices in the sitting growing louder. She passed the large ornate portrait of Harlan on her way out, feeling the painted eyes following her in twinkling mirth. Rarely did she pause to observe the portrait, finding the piece to be a tad intrusive, if not uncomfortably intriguing. But in this instant she found her feet falling to a stop just as she walked by…

The Thrombey family befuddled her on more than one occasion, this situation—one she was unceremoniously yanked into by Ransom—no exception. Vocal and stubborn, it was impossible to think clearly around them once a discussion, or rather, argument, was afoot.

But now in the hall alone, she found herself struggling to connect the dots of how exactly she found herself in the middle of their drama.

It was a ‘simple’ Sunday afternoon lunch, one Harlan began insisting on all his children and grandchildren as he edged closer to the cusp of his old age. She’d been invited, as always—“ _I can’t stand to be there alone with them,”_ he bemoaned, _“afterwards we can squeeze in a couple of games of ‘Go,’ and maybe you can finally give some input on that one chapter…”_

She found it difficult to say ‘no’ to Harlan.

He wanted friendship. He wanted companionship. He wanted someone to share inside jokes with.

He just wanted a friend. And Marta was happy to fill the hole.

Once a late lunch was eaten and all the guests migrated to the sitting room, Harlan beckoned his eldest grandson, Ransom, to his study. Her heart leapt to her throat at their subtle exit, knowing Ransom and Harlan’s relationship to be….explosive.

Yelling, grumbling, arguing.

She once heard a few books thrown at the window.

Thump, thump, whamp.

_“That’s just how we are,”_ Harlan explained after she expressed her concern, “ _he is too much like me. Especially at that age—all arrogance, no substance.”_ He grinned then, sadly. _“If you met me at his age my dear, I’d put a sour taste in your mouth. You’d never want to speak with me again.”_

“What the hell!”

Turning around, she found Ransom marching up to her. Step by step, hunch to his shoulders.

“Have you never heard of ‘playing along’ or ‘improv’? It’s not that hard.”

Marta remained silent, recalling the phrase ‘if you have nothing nice to say, then say nothing at all.’

Ransom, apparently, did not know such an ideal. He barreled right past her, a hand on her back to lead her into the kitchen. Her mind begged at her to pull the brakes, yet her feet followed his lead without second thought.

“Okay Santa Maria,” Ransom shoved open the swinging kitchen door, “here’s the deal. You are my granddad’s favorite—”

“Excuse me?”

“I said what I said and we all know it to be true,” he said cutting her moment of genuine shock short. Snapping into old gentleman politeness, he pulled out a kitchen stool for her, she taking the seat out of desperation rather than gratitude. “Believe it or not Chita Rivera, he considers you more blood than say, Walt,” he uttered the name with half disdain-half amusement. A cockiness of knowing where they all fell on the totem poll of Harlan’s love oozed off of him in drowning waves. “I don’t want to know what you do for him beyond the usual little fun slip of morphine—that’s stuff a grandson shouldn’t even know.”

Horror trickled through her from head to toe, dousing into each centimeter of her veins.

Was he implying…?

“No,” she croaked out, finding her voice once more. “No,” she repeated, stronger, “it’s not like that at all. I’m his nurse. His _friend_.”

Ransom rolled his eyes, clearly not believing her and not willing to listen to her valid and correct statements. “Anyways—long story short, you are my ticket to getting that man on my side.”

She blinked, completely lost on his logic. “By…marrying you?”

“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, you’ll wake the dead,” he deadpanned. Shaking his head, he began to peruse the cabinets, before finding the correct one with crystal drinking glasses. “The damn help always likes to change the cabinets on us,” he grumbled. Turning on the faucet, he filled a glass with water. “You’re not like the other help,” Ransom mused, setting the glass in front of her. “You don’t stick your nose where it shouldn’t be…but you have eyes. You see the shit around here.”

Marta didn’t touch the glass of water, instead staring down at the condensation accumulating around the cool glass in the warm room.

“Oh, so is it you only talk to Little Miss Revolutionary and my granddad, now?” His forearms rested on the countertop, leering towards her ever so slightly. A comfortable and charming leer if he had been another man and she had been another woman. One that even caused her to question his intentions for an instant. “No one here is your friend—but I can change that.”

Even she could not refrain the raised eyebrow at his arrogance.

“You see my granddad has made some changes to the will,” he swiped a finger down the glass of water, rubbing the watery residue between his fingers. An act of forced nonchalance. “Changes not everyone is privy to—in fact, I am damn sure I am the only one who knows of these changes…”

“And?” Her hands clamped together on her lap, hoping the conversation would end already.

“And,” he stressed, “it turns out I won’t get my inheritance until I marry—marry someone who measures to Harlan’s approval. And anyone who knows Harlan knows it takes a fucking miracle worker to get on his good side, to be loved and adored by the old guy.” Harlan adored the wildness and urges of human nature—the death, the revenge, the love—but that did not necessarily mean he _liked_ people. If anything he detested people with an unadulterated passion. She once heard from Fran that Harlan refused to give Richard his blessing to marry Linda. He asked three more times before Linda threatened to elope with or without her father’s approval. “A fucked up stipulation, but one I can find a loop hole to.”

“I’m the loop hole?”

“You’re catching on,” he grinned, “I knew there had to be some brains under all of that _exoticness_.”

She frowned. On her lap, her hands clamped together in a fierce grip.

“Look at this way Martha—”

“ _Marta_.”

“Martha,” he repeated, clearly choosing to not correct himself, “it’s a win-win. I get my inheritance and I’ll give you some, considering you’ll be my wife and…and well, you can’t be dressing like that all the time.” He motioned to her corduroys and second-hand wool sweater. “And I can even call my lawyer friends and the get that pretty little green card for your mother—”

She shot up from her seat.

“You’re an asshole,” she said firmly believing her assessment. Never in her life had she called anyone, not even the biggest of jerks or selfish of individuals, an asshole. But there was no other word or phrase to completely encapsulate the man who was Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale.

He sighed, a slight smirk threatening the corner of his mouth. “Now, Martha. There is nothing to be ashamed of—”

“It is _Marta_.” She matched him toe to toe. “Mar- _ta_. It’s not that hard.”

“Oh so the kitty _does_ have claws.”

She wanted to gag. Taking a step back, she began to leave the kitchen not warranting his taunts with a response. Just as she was about to head out the door, she turned back to him, eyes set and determined.

“I’m _not_ Brazilian. I’m _not_ Chita Rivera. I’m _not_ Santa Maria. And I’m _not_ marrying you.”

With a rough shove, she marched out of the kitchen without looking back.

“Sure thing Bidibamba! I’ll drop the ring by on my next visit!”

* * *

Harlan Thrombey was not an aging fool as his grandson liked to believe.

No, he was the smartest person in the room and he knew it. He wore the silent acclaim proudly.

He also knew his dear friend and nurse had been ambushed in the most chaotic sense, by his grandson no less. A reckless and ambitious fellow who liked to live far too comfortably without any rhyme or reason. He had not accomplished anything beyond a college degree—one he earned through throwing money in the direction of the dean of students instead of putting forth hard work. Harlan tried, once, to put his brilliant grandson—because yes, despite his attitude and snappy mouth, Ransom was a genius to a degree—to work. Be a researcher for a novel, be an editor, be _anything_ goddamn it.

So yes, putting a hold and stipulation on Ransom’s funds and inheritance was a necessity. He couldn’t have a grown man, a grown man fully capable of performing adequately in the workforce with a pricey education, sit around like bum and throw cash around like it was a confetti.

What kind of man would he be if he led his grandson so far astray?

Marta Cabrera, on the other hand, should never be entangled with such an idiot.

Smart, tenacious, and kind. She was too clever, more so than anyone in the house gave credit. She beat him at ‘Go,’ only two people before her in his life time achieved such a feat.

She reminded him far too much of his late wife, Julie. Gone too soon, far too soon. Just thirty-five years young, not alive long enough to witness the empire he built for her, for their children, and their children’s children. But bless her for not seeing the mess he made, spoiling and coddling their family to the point they could not picture their life without the comfortability of luxury.

But Marta…Marta had Julie’s spirit, in a way he had not seen any of his children or grandchildren. Except for perhaps Ransom, when he had been a boy. Curious of the world, kind to the dogs, and happy to read out loud for him before hurrying off to bed for the night.

That was why he planned to leave all he had to her. To Marta Cabrera whose kindness thawed his heart and reminded him of the goodness in a world full of horrors and selfish sin. She understood hard work, and understood there was more to life than wealth.

She understood what he had been when he began writing.

And therefore she’d reap the benefits.

Of course, that was what he planned.

_“You’re an asshole,”_ came Marta’s voice. She sounded surprised by her own words, but did not back down.

Outside the kitchen, Harlan could not help but lean forward, watching the two from the gap in the door. Breath held and body still to be witness.

His grandson smirked, the one he liked to throw to everyone as though he were still that charming troublesome teen. “ _Now, Martha. There is nothing to be ashamed of—”_

_“It is_ Marta _.”_ She stood before Ransom, unafraid and challenging. Just as Harlan expected of her. “ _Mar-_ ta _. It’s not that hard.”_

“ _Oh so the kitty_ does _have claws.”_

Harlan refrained an eyeroll at the phrase. Ransom was truly…an imbecilic at times.

From his spot, he caught sight of Marta making her exit, face pinched in silent furry. But then she stopped, turning to Ransom once more.

_“I’m_ not _Brazilian. I’m_ not _Chita Rivera. I’m_ not _Santa Maria. And I’m_ not _marrying you.”_

Within seconds she marched out of the kitchen, bypassing Harlan who tucked himself in plain sight beside the hall drawing table. In a flurry, she threw on her coat and scarf. Meg caught sight of her, a brief exchange of farewells shared between the two young women, with a murmur of apology lost somewhere in the parting hug.

“Tell your grandfather I said goodbye, and I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Marta. Ransom is the ass—”

Harlan walked into the kitchen, not needing to listen to his granddaughter hash out halfhearted niceties. She was young trying to do the right thing, but she was far too young to realize her actions could cause more harm than good.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?”

“Eavesdropping?” Ransom walked around the kitchen island, setting the unused glass of water in the sink. “I want to say I am surprised, but I suppose that is to be expected of you.”

He did not bother to wash the glass, letting it sit there. The only singular glass in the sink.

Harlan tutted, taking the seat Marta vacated moments ago. “Ransom if this is about your inheritance, maybe you should just find a nice girl and settle down. It’s not that hard.”

Ransom’s handsome, refined features twisted into a petulant pout. He was still the boy told he could not stay up later and read, the boy scolded for snatching the last cookie from the cookie jar, the boy coerced into being either the best or the worst in order to gain attention from the adults in the room.

“Find a nice girl? Settle down? You’re funny.” The man-child scoffed. “I’m not going to be a pawn in your little game of life lessons and growing up.”

“I am serious, my boy. Plenty of women find you attractive,” Harlan stated plainly. He motioned for the pot of coffee sitting on the warmer. Ransom understood, making the usual cup of coffee—two sugars, no creamer and a dash of whole milk. Just like always, just like it will always be. “It is a matter of find the one that fits.”

“What if Marta is the one that fits?” Ransom shot back, taking a sip of his own coffee. “What about that? Hmm?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Harlan picked up his mug with a knowing smirking, “so you do know her name.”

Ransom scowled.

“She’s too good for you,” Harlan told Ransom, straightforward and not beating around the bush. “She won’t marry you. Not even if she was held at gun point.”

Ransom shrugged. “That can be arranged.” He took a long sip of his coffee, eyes ready to pounce on a dare. To push the right buttons and see what would happen. “But I do genuinely care for dear little Miss Venezuela, and I think she will find it in her heart to make room for good old Ransom.”

“Whatever you do blackmail her or force upon her, she won’t oblige,” Harlan replied, confident in Marta’s character. “Her morals are unwavering. Yours on the other hand…” Harlan sipped his coffee, he and his grandson matching images of men playing prideful nonchalance to their advantage and detriment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The glared in Ransom’s stare did little scare Harlan; instead, it made his excited. Intrigued if he were to be honest, to see how his grandson would fare getting tangled in his own game of lies and deception. There could be novel there—or rather a handsome story to relay at a dinner party in the future.

“I doubt you are infatuated, let alone in love with Marta. And this ploy to marry her to receive your inheritance, is playing with fire. A fire you are in no way skilled to handle.”

“Maybe you’re wrong, old man.” He put his half drank coffee in the sink beside the untouched glass of water. Both sitting to washed by someone who was not him. “Maybe she and I are deeply in love and we have just been hiding it, how about that?”

“Marta tells me everything. I’d know if she were seeing you.”

“Oh, really? _Everything_?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Her last date was three months ago. A blind date, set by a nursing school friend. It was uneventful, and she never met the man again,” Harlan prattled off, recalling how unenthusiastic Marta had been about the date. While she wasn’t actively looking for romance, her career and family always coming first, she’d been disheartened by the turn of events. Any young woman would be.

“Maybe she lied to you,” Ransom shot back. “People lie all the time.”

Harlan laughed. Full belly laugh.

“Marta doesn’t lie.”

“Everybody lies.”

“Not Marta,” Harlan said, faith unwavering. “She can’t.”

“You have too much faith in your Saint Mary,” Ransom told him, heading out of the kitchen. “One day you’ll learn she’s just like the rest of us.”

Harlan shook his head once. “And one day you’ll learn she’s not.”

* * *

After some digging around and a perusing of his granddad’s rarely touched address book, Ransom found Marta’s apartment. Other side of town, closer to the train tracks that streamlined through the country side and past the edge of the city boarder.

He rang the doorbell, knocked, and was even tempted to kick the door.

Yet no answer.

When he was about to give up on knocking, the door swung open—

Only it wasn’t Marta, but a younger girl.

She frowned at him, eyeing him up and down, nose wrinkled. “Who the hell are you?”

“Alicia! _¿Qué he dicho sobre abrir la puerta así?_ ”

The girl sighed, rolling her eyes. “Mami, it’s just some gringo—”

“ _Ay_! Alicia!” An older woman soon came to the door, shooing the girl away. She turned to Ransom, dusting her hands on her apron and giving him a pleasant smile. The same pleasant smile Marta liked to give when she was around the rest of his family. Forced but kind—always kind. “Hello—please forgive my daughter. Teenagers,” she rolled her eyes good naturedly, “how may I help you?”

Ransom’s mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say for an instant. He expected to be confronted with Marta, not…her mother?

A lightbulb went off in his head, a charming smile forming on his lips. This…this could work in his favor.

“Hello Mrs. Cabrera, I’m Hugh Drysdale, Marta’s boyfriend.” He relished at the surprised and delighted shock on the woman’s face. He knew how to charm mothers like it was his day job, Marta Cabrera’s mother would be no different it seemed. “I’d love to sit and chat with you, because you see,” he took a deep breath, hoping to look as nervous as young man head over heels in love, “I’d like to ask for your blessing for her hand in marriage.”


	2. Asking For A Blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typos will be fixed later.
> 
> Enjoy :D

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

**ASKING FOR A BLESSING**

* * *

Marta did not like horror films.

Mystery? Yes.

Her Mami watched _Murder She Wrote_ religiously, Marta planting herself right beside her in the late night as the reruns played back to back.

She read at least two of Harlan’s novels a week, each filled with their own distinct drama, suspense, and mystery.

However, Marta simply did not like horror.

And what she walked into that evening must have been directly out of a horror film curated for her.

Because Ransom was in the kitchen with her mother, helping her cook. A heart patterned apron adorned him, it tied off behind his back in a haphazard knot.

“Mija, come set those down,” her mother motioned to the groceries in her arms, “did you get the cheese like I told you?”

“Yes, Mami,” Marta muttered, her eyes still locked on the man standing in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes with careful tread. As though this were the first time he’d been asked to chop tomatoes in his life. Marta would not have been surprised if that had been the case. “You didn’t tell me we had a guest.”

“You didn’t tell me you have a boyfriend,” her mother remarked lowly as she passed by her. She reached into the paper bags and grabbed the various cheeses—Monterey Jack, Cheddar, and Queso Fresco. “Let alone a _novio_ like _him_.” Elsa Cabrera wasn’t one to be fooled, the corner of her mouth pulled into a tight frown.

She could pinpoint a scoundrel a mile away. A liar in a short stare. And a coward in one conversation.

Elsa Cabrera was Marta’s hero and single fear in life. A mother with compassion and a stronghold to not be tested. One to not disappoint.

And Marta was sure Ransom’s presence was more than just a mere ‘disappointment’.

As though hearing her thoughts, Ransom turned around, a large charming grin on full display. “Heya Sweet-Pea!”

From across the kitchen counter, Alicia gagged at the term. Her eyes caught Marta, regarding her in complete and utter disbelief _._

_‘Sweet-Pea?’_ she mouthed.

Marta rolled her eyes, no having the energy to give her chismosa sister any variation of an explanation.

“Hi…Ransom,” she greeted, each word feeling like a sharp rock lodged in her throat. She kept close to the kitchen table, wanting to become one with the apples and bananas in the fruit bowl. “Why are you here?”

“ _Marta_!” Her Mami scolded over her shoulder. Her hands worked swift to grate the cheeses, mixing the three together. “He is our guest—show some respect.”

“Yeah,” Ransom echoed, nearly slicing his finger while doing so, “show some respect, Marta.”

Alicia rolled her eyes, resuming her work of stirring the chile verde at the stove. Mami did so as well, now layering the tortillas in the glass pan. Ransom, on the other hand, gave her a large smug smile. He believed he already won the game—a game she refused to play.

But finding him in her home set her off in the worst way possible.

Her home with Mami and Alicia was both a burden and an escape, as much as she refused to admit such thoughts. She worked hard to provide for their family, a good sum of her paycheck going to various bills and student loans. Her Mami could only afford so much work without gaining attention these days—someone needed to make sure their lives remained normal. With homecooked meals, the comfortability of their apartment, and the familiarity of routine. Coming home to such a simple atmosphere—a homely atmosphere—Marta could shed the grandeur of the Thrombeys. Go from feeling absurdly small around Harlan’s family to being herself again.

Shrugging off her jacket, she hung it up by the door and removed her shoes. Coming back to the kitchen, she rolled up her sweater sleeves and washed her hands.

“I’ll help him with the pico,” Marta told her mother.

The woman grunted in relief. “He’s been at it for twenty minutes. It doesn’t take that long to chop some food.”

Grabbing her own knife, Marta joined Ransom at one corner of the tight kitchen.

“Heya sweet-pea,” he greeted cheekily, knowing how it bothered her. Marta far too often wore her heart on her sleeve; her face betrayed her more often than not.

She grabbed the uncut onion and slid the chopping board in front of her. With ease she cut the onion in half and diced—sharp, quick. The knife sliding in deft agility and hands moving in a dance of firm and light.

In less than a thirty seconds, the onion was chopped and tossed into the awaiting off-white Pyrex bowl.

“Wow, you are actually really good at that—”

“After tonight, you are not coming here again.” The garlic was smashed under the blunt of her knife. A dull thud sounded on the chopping board. “You have no _right_ to be here.” Broken pieces of garlic were cut into tiny particles. All was dumped into the glass bowl within moments. Cilantro was next—a quick up and down, breaking up the fragile stems and leaves. “This is my home and you are in no way invited nor welcomed here,” she hissed low. Just loud enough for her and Ransom, and only her and Ransom.

A soft scoff escaped him. “I’m trying to help you here.”

“The only person you are trying to help is yourself.” She grabbed one of the last tomatoes, setting it before her. All of the tomatoes Ransom cut were rendered useless; mushy, half cut, broken in a sad disarray. “If you really wanted to help me, you’d leave me alone and act like today never happened.” Tomatoes done and the peppers next. Ransom leaned away at the sight of the three peppers. “I don’t like lying and I don’t like you and I don’t want you to bring me into your family. It’s the last thing I want.”

With two fingers she wiped off the lingering seeds stuck to the blade. She dusted them off in the bowl.

“But what if I do like you?” he shot back, nonchalant. “Hell, what if I love you.”

“You don’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I know love,” she said surely.

She’d seen love. Her Papi and Mami as a girl; the way they’d dance to the radio when their song came on. She’d seen past patients speak with great weight on their lost loved ones. She’d seen the way Harlan lamented on Julie. How each book was dedicated as— _to my love, the greatest mystery is how you could love someone like me”_

_“_ Or at least I know enough.” For the first time since she joined him, Marta’s gaze found his. Stern and un-faltered. “And you don’t have an ounce of it in you, Ransom.”

She cut the lemon in half. Both were shoved in front of him.

“Just squeeze those in the bowl and mix. You can stay for dinner—but once it is over and you’ve cleaned the dishes— _leave_.”

* * *

Once dinner was eaten—chile verde enchiladas—and the dishes were washed—Ransom bailed half way through the task—both Marta and her Mami sat at the table with a late night coffee and short bread cookies.

“Want to tell me why that man was here?” her Mami asked as she dunked her cookie into her French Vanilla doused coffee. “Because I know that man was _not_ your boyfriend.”

Stirring her cookie in her coffee, Marta sighed. “He’s Harlan Thrombey’s grandson.”

“Ah,” her Mami hummed, lips pressed together. “ _And_?”

Her Mami knew there was more to the story. Why else would Ransom show up on their door step?

“The other day…” Marta trailed off, considering if she should tell her mother how ridiculous the entire situation turned out to be. “The other day at the Thrombey’s, Ransom announced in front of everyone he wants to _marry_ me.”

Elsa’s eyebrows shot up, stunned. “Oh, I see.” She resumed eating her short bread, chewing thoughtfully. “And this is unusual?”

Marta stared hard, down into the blackness of her coffee. “Ransom has never spoken to me before that. _Never_. And I know he only wants to marry me to fulfill a stipulation in his inheritance. He doesn’t wasn’t to get married he just wants the money. Not because…” She shook her head, looking away. “But I told him no—told him I wasn’t going to do it. Lie to—lie to Harlan. Lie to everyone.” Her throat dried, she thinking about how he promised to help her Mami. She could not trust anyone to help her Mami, but herself. And that’s how it was and always would be.

“Did…did he offer you some of the money?” Her Mami’s eyes were now glued to the kitchen table, not lifting an inch as she spoke. “Some of the inheritance money, mija?”

“Yes, but—”

“You should do it.”

Her words shattered Marta’s heart.

“What?”

Her Mami’s hands clasped over hers, their lukewarm coffee long forgotten. Warm and leathered from manual labor, Mami’s hands were the safest place in the world. “Mija, you should take his offer. If he is only doing this for the money and has no intention on anything else…then you should take advantage of the opportunity.”

“Mami, no.”

“Marta, _yes_.” Her Mami squeezed her hands—firm and hard, pleading. “If there is one thing I have learned while being in this country, you do not let an opportunity pass you by. Because it might not come again.” Her eyes were fierce, daring Marta to argue. “Think of it this way mija, you marry him. You get your part of the money. You pay off your student loans.” Mami sniffled, forcing a brave smile. “You deserve to be debt free, mi hija. You’ve worked too hard and I wish I can give you more—”

“Mami, stop.” Marta wiggled a hand free from her Mami’s hold. With her thumb, she wiped under her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Knowing them…it won’t be that simple. The family—”

“Who cares?” her Mami pressed. “Who cares what that loco family thinks? They don’t know what they are getting with you.”

Marta closed her eyes, feeling more tears begging for release.

Her Mami wanted her to do it—honest to god, wanted her to do it.

It felt unfathomable. Yet…

She knew her Mami was trying to be smart. Trying to think big picture; Marta was never like that. Also seeing what was right in front of her, focused on the details. All the details and then the big picture.

“Not everyone marries for love,” her Mami’s voice began, soft and tired. “Sometimes we marry because it is the best choice. And we can’t say no, or else…” She forced her brave smile once more. “…or else we have to live with the choice we don’t make.”

Her mother rarely spoke of her life in Mexico. A few stories here and there; mostly of when she was a child. But otherwise, Mexico was a thin vile of a place. One they knew of and acknowledged, but did not speak of in depth. All Marta knew was her father and mother came to the United States in their twenties, already married.

“You really want me to do this.”

Mami nodded, patting Marta’s hand.

* * *

“I’ll do it.”

Ransom peeked up from the book he’d been reading— _Wuthering Heights_ —to find Marta before him. He’d been camping out in his granddad’s first floor study, hiding from the rest of his family in the sitting room. Sunday had rolled around once more, meaning Sunday Lunch. And while Ransom wasn’t usually one to shy away from the attention, he knew it was his best option considering the unspoken _and_ spoken rejection he faced the previous weekend.

The study was chosen strategically—closest room to the main sitting room with privacy. Most didn’t willingly venture into the room, Linda and Walt out of the slim respect they had for their father. The same could be said for Joni, Donna, and Richard. Meg and Jacob were just little shits too scared to enter the room, even when beckoned.

Sure, Ransom understood…to an extent. But then again, he granddad gladly led him into the room as a child and let him enter whenever his mood so willed it.

So maybe… he didn’t quite understand the fear.

But he did not expect Marta to know where he’d been. To enter with steady and still feet, and look like she belonged in the room.

He tilted the hardcover book down, against his chest. “Do what?”

She shifted from foot to foot, her worn white slip-on sneakers shuffling ever so slightly on the oriental carpet. Her hands remained rooted at her side, fisted. “I…will marry you.”

The words were small and crisp.

Ransom smirked.

“What changed that little head of yours? Hmm?” He leaned further back in the corner arm chair, basking in the antique lamp’s warm light and Marta’s near fuming gaze. “Realizing money makes the world go round, Saint Mary?”

Her mouth pinched, but no cruel words came tumbling out.

Saint Mary, indeed.

“I’ll marry you, Ransom,” she said, but caught herself before enough silenced lulled and he could jump right back in. “But we need to make a few things clear—I am only doing this because you said you’d give me a portion of the inheritance,” her voice was quiet; no one outside would be the wiser. “I’m not doing this for you.”

“Then who are you doing this for?”

She ignored the question. “That is the only reason I am doing this. I don’t want anything else and you should not expect anything else from me. I’m not going to be your servant, or be your maid, or sleep with you—”

“Whoa!” His hands shot up in defense, the book falling to the floor. “No—no—God, _no_!” The idea was laughable, she even suggesting they’d have sex and be intimate was one that caused his stomach to churn uncomfortably. “I have no interest in doing any of _that_ with you.” He motioned to all of her. “Nurses aren’t my kink.”

Her nose wrinkled, disgust flashing in her eyes for one second and gone the next.

“But sure,” he shrugged, “you and I just need to be married on legal papers. Maybe hold hands at a family function every once and awhile,” he mused, attempting to recall any normal couple actions. He never had a relationship last more than a few weeks, and calling those flings relationships was…a stretch in the least. “You can move into my place; I have the space. Make it look real to the old bastard and then in a few short months once the money is in my bank account we can end the whole charade. An amicable divorce.” He grinned. “I already called up the courthouse. We can have this done in less than a week with the people I know.”

“Less than a week?” she uttered, eyes wide. “How did you even know I’d say ‘yes’?”

“Because I know you better than you think, Spanish Rose.” With that, he picked up his fallen book and motioned her away. “Leave, I’d like to continue my book. I was just getting to the good part.”

She didn’t move, frowning at the cover.

“I didn’t consider you a fan of the classics,” she eyes him cautiously, as though unsure of what to do with herself. “Especially Bronte.”

“What can I say?” He licked his index finger and flicked the page over. “I love a good villain. And Heathcliff is a _great_ villain.”

* * *

“So when is the big day?” Before Marta could open her mouth, Joni continued with her never ending roulette of questions. “Are you thinking a big wedding or small? Also the gown—peach or a blush pink would look _gorgeous_ with your skin tone. Would really bring out that Caribbean undertones and roots and whatnot.” Her eyes went wide, jaw dropping. “I know the perfect person to make your dress! I follow her on Insta—she makes custom dresses and you would look to die for in one of her designs. Absolutely to _die_ for!”

“Mom, let her breathe,” Meg muttered, sipping her glass of wine. “Her and Ransom just announced their engagement—hell, she doesn’t even have a ring.”

As though an alarm bell went off in the room, all eyes snapped to Marta’s bare left hand.

“He hasn’t given you a ring?”

“Ransom! Where the hell is that boy?”

“Boy? _Boy_? He is a _man_ —a man who clearly did not pay attention in those cotillion classes you two forked a good few thousand for.”

“They don’t teach proposals at cotillion, Walt.”

“Where is he? Ransom! Hugh Ransom Drysdale—”

“I have a ring, goddamn it!”

As though appearing out of thin air, Ransom beelined to Marta, and took her hand without any flourish. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a ring—silver, a large diamond in the center with several little ones surround it. Marta did not know much about worth or jewelry. The most jewelry she wore were the simple pair of earrings she’d been wearing every day for the last seven years.

But clearly the ring was a good selection, all the women oohing and awing over it. Words like ‘clarity,’ ‘cut,’ and ‘karat’ were thrown around.

She didn’t understand a single word, just letting her hand be passed around like a hot potato.

Marta, on the other hand, found she did not care for the ring despite its grandeur.

Her eyes lifted from the women in the house to find Harlan watching her with a keen eye.

He knew.

He knew she didn’t like the ring. He knew she was uncomfortable. He knew she did not want to marry Ransom but was choosing to.

It felt like a lie.

Bile rumbled and twisted up within her.

In a frantic rush, she pulled her hand away and dashed out of the sitting room. Straight into the bathroom.

And all of her lunch was expelled into the toilet.

This…this was going to be more difficult than she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little chapter to bring us into full swing with the fake marriage plans :D
> 
> Also don't be surprised if classic novels are mentioned through out the fic. It is sort of my thing, lol. They usually pertain to the fic's story in some sort of way.


	3. Finding the Loop Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter! Wanted it to be longer but I think this one covers some important ground.
> 
> Typos will be fixed later.
> 
> Enjoy :D

* * *

FINDING A LOOP HOLE

* * *

“We don’t want a big wedding.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“But it’s true.” Ransom spun the dreidel like paperweight on it’s tip, the object clattering to a stop after one half-hearted spin.

Linda picked it up and stashed it in her desk drawer.

“So what? You came here to tell me you want me to plan it? I don’t have the time, Ransom.” Linda motioned to her office. “As you can see, I have a job and I am busy.”

“Selling houses to people who are looking for their third vacation home,” he droned with an eyeroll. He slouched further in the chair, a perfect picture of a petulant teenager if he hadn’t been thirty-seven and far too old for such bullshit. “I know.”

“Then what?” Linda squinted at her piling emails, trashing a couple of spam and advertisements. She typed slow, glasses tipping on the edge of her nose as she clicked on the email she’d been looking for; a deal in the making with an property investor. “If this is some green card wedding, you’ll need a whole lot more than some court house documents.”

“ _What_?”

“Green card wedding require a whole hell lot more evidence than a scrap of paper saying you two are married—”

Ransom’s brows furrowed. “She’s an American,” he sat up straighter, suddenly feeling riled by the implication. “She was born in this country.”

“And you know that for sure?” She stared down her son over the rim of her glasses. “Not that I don’t mind the girl. She’s sweet. In a…homely kind of way. Knows how to blend in and keep to herself. Not many people can do that naturally.” Her eyes dropped back down to her laptop, a dismissal if anything. “Just don’t want our family to get some scrutiny because of it.”

“I know for a fact she is an American,” Ransom deadpanned.

“You just never know these days, son.” Linda turned away from the screen, sparing her son a vague and forced apologetic glance. “And I get it. Marrying her gives you the attention you’ve always sought and your grandfather seems to love the girl like she’s his own.” Her distaste on the matter did not go unnoticed. “You get the best of both worlds. Though I don’t know how in hell she agreed to marry you—”

“Wait, what?” Ransom blinked, her words indicating something he had not caught before. “What do you mean, ‘you get it’—”

“Ransom, I know for fact you do not love nor like this girl.” Linda closed her laptop, deciding to give her son her undivided attention. “You’ve never been the marrying type. You’ve never been the _relationship_ type and I am not going to fool myself into thinking that the right girl will come along and fix you. I let that boat sail years ago.”

“I could like her. Maybe I’ve changed.”

A incredulous chuckle bubbled out of his mother.

“You’re funny, son.” She stood up, packing up her laptop into her brief case. “However, I think you may have missed a tiny detail when you coerced this girl into marrying you.”

“What tiny detail?”

“Marta cannot lie.”

Ransom raised an eyebrow. “No, she—”

“She vomits, Ransom,” Linda told him impatiently. “Gag reflex goes nuts. She just _can’t_.”

He felt his gut dip.

_Of fucking course_. She was a true Saint Mary through and through.

“Now are you going to take me out on that lunch you promised, or are you going to just sit there like an gob smacked idiot?”

Glaring down at his hands, Ransom forced a neutral face and followed his mother out.

This was going to be more difficult than he thought.

* * *

Marta never wore jewelry. For logistical reasons.

She was a nurse and one of the first things she’d been taught was to be bare of any jewelry that could be caught or tugged. Having anything ornate would be impractical. Her small earrings were one of the few pieces she wore, too small to do any damage in her line of work.

But the engagement ring…

Heavy. Large. Bright. Sharp.

Sure it fit, but it was all wrong.

Before she stepped into the Thrombey house, she twisted the ring off and pocketed the expensive piece into her sweater pocket.

A practical and logical choice.

She knew how to make practical and logical choices all the time, but as of recent she felt that part of her slipped away for an undeserving vacation. She needed to be level-headed. Needed to aware, especially with all eyes on her. A first.

Squaring her shoulders, she entered the house. Setting down her purse, she shrugged off her jacket and dusted off her sneakers, making sure she didn’t track any mud. Checking the time, she noted it was half past nine on a Tuesday. Which meant Harlan was out on the back porch, watering his plants as he mentally wrangled with his plot.

He’d been trapped in his own mind with his latest novel, often finding himself outside rather than in confines of his upstairs study.

_“Spring is a near and I need to air to think properly.”_ He once explained. _“Gets the gears turning in a way they hadn’t in the winter.”_

Marta found she could not disagree. Winter fading away into spring brought a certain quality to the air, to the sky, to the land. Alive again after it’s scheduled and timely death, bring the dead back to life with sprouts of green lush.

“Ah, Marta,” Harlan greeted as she stepped outside. He was wrapped up in a warm sweater, a gardening hat on his head despite the cloudy skies. “Just in time. Can you help me rearrange this pot? I think it is being covered by this damn thing.” He waved at the steady growing potted tree to the right of the thumbell bluebells. She shifted it over, he nodding in thanks. “The tree should be ready in a few more weeks to plant out in the yard.”

His eyes trailed to her hands.

She tucked them back to her sides.

“Not wearing the engagement ring, I see.”

“I—” She had an excuse, but she knew it would not work with Harlan.

“You can say you don’t like it,” Harlan assured her. He pulled off his gardening gloves, tucking them into his outdoor jacket pocket. “Ransom has a particular, expensive taste. He would not begin to know what a girl like yourself would want.”

Marta sighed, Harlan seeing right through her. She plucked the ring from her sweater pocket. Her fingers skimmed the silver band and the cuts of the diamond. All well crafted with skill and trained hands. Impeccable.

The ring shined beautifully under the gray sky.

She frowned.

“I…I have never owned anything like this and I don’t wear rings. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Give it back to him,” Harlan shrugged, the answer seeming simple. “Ask for something more your taste. If Ransom wants to marry you, he needs to understand you are different than him. That you do not need a ridiculous ring to show off, because that is not you my dear.”

Marta swallowed tightly, eyes darting between the ring and Harlan.

He had a point. She had every right to ask for a different ring; to put her foot down and declare what she wanted, what she’d be comfortable with.

But then again…

“I don’t want to offend him.”

“Ransom needs to be offended every once in a while,” Harlan chortled. “It keeps his ego in check. He is far too prideful for a man of little accomplishment.”

She could not help, but smile in agreement. “You do have a point there.”

Harlan studied her for moment, before offering her his arm. “A walk around the yard?”

“Of course.” She looped her arm through his, he having the pretense of leading. However Marta led, her legs and grip stronger than her elderly friend’s.

Together they stepped down the patio stairs and on to the revitalizing grass, their stool slow and steady. They walked in silence, as most of their walks around the yard happened to be, but as the sun began to peak from behind the clouds, Harlan cleared his throat.

“Whatever reason you may have for choosing to marry Ransom,” Harlan began, “whether he be truly caring for you or promising you anything, just know it is a choice. You can always decided to back out, to leave him, to kill him if you so want,” he added with a chuckle. “I’ll help you hide the body.”

“I’m not much of murderer, but I’ll keep that in mind,” Marta joked along. Her face became somber. Harlan was far too kind to her, more so than deserved. “Thank you though. It is nice to know I have a choice and be assured I do.”

“We always have a choice, my dear. Choosing to do nothing at all is a choice itself, as well.”

“I’m aware.”

He patted her hand, keeping it there a moment. “I just want to make sure you know.” He then smirked. “And I give you full permission to give that bastard hell. He’s overdue for some.”

Marta felt her lips twitch at the phrase.

_“Make it look real to the old bastard”_

Their vernacular and stubborn streaks were almost identical. Calling each other bastards, speaking with such conviction and roundaboutness that only a writer could. Similar, yet—

“Ah, Santa Maria, just who I was looking for!”

Shutting his car door behind him, Ransom marched up the front lawn to Marta and Harlan. A briskness invaded his gate, a grumpy urgency shrouding him. Sensing him, the dogs came around, yipping and barking at him. A scowl morphed across his handsome features, he shooing the hounds away. Except the dogs were stubborn like their owner, hanging around despite Ransom’s harsh dismissal.

“Damn mutts,” he grumbled.

Harlan chuckled as his grandson struggled.

Marta hid her mirth well, ducking her head down at more insistent quacks and groans came from her fiancé.

“Call the beasts off!” Ransom sneered, one of the hounds attempting to bite at his calf. “I mean it!”

Deciding enough was enough, Harlan whistled and called the dogs away, not without giving both a treat that had been tucked away in his pockets. “Such a pity they don’t love you like they once did,” Harlan tutted. “You use to love Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

“Then they grew up and became vicious nutjobs,” Ransom shot back, glaring at where the dogs once had been.

“Sounds like _someone_ I know,” Harlan said, holding his grandson’s gaze with a steady unmoving grip.

“Yes, _Meg_ ,” Ransom declared without missing a beat. “Who decided she could go to college and become a privileged activist?”

Harlan snorted. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The grandfather and grandson seemed to have their own language and culture amongst each other. Know the right words to get under the skin, know the right words to earn a chuckle, know the right words to plunge a knife into their back. They fell into their own patterns and world no one else in the house was privy to—

Except for maybe Marta. She understood, more than Ransom knew and too well in Harlan’s opinion. Being part of the unseen, meant she saw—saw all that happened around her and listened with care. She knew the game Harlan and Ransom played, and she wondered if it truly brought the two together or tore them apart.

“While it has been fun chatting,” Ransom’s disgruntled voice cut through her thoughts, “I’d like to speak to my fiancé. _Alone_.”

Her friend did not need to be told more than once. Harlan patted Marta’s hand in departure and began his leave, dropping her arm. “Remember what I said, Marta.”

Taking a step closer to her, Ransom waited until Harlan was up the steps and entering the house before taking her arm with his and leading her back the way she came.

He lowered his head until his lips nearly brushed her temple. “Why the hell did you not tell me you throw up when you lie?”

Musky-cedarwood surrounded her. She leaned further away, attempting to be subtle. But Ransom kept a steady hold of her.

“I thought you knew,” she stared back up at him, almost in warning, “I thought everyone knew.”

“Well, I fucking didn’t and how the hell are we supposed to do this if no one is going to believe it?”

“Maybe that’s your problem and not mine.” She shook off his arm, turning around to block his path. “I can’t help but get nervous and throw up when I lie. I’ve been like that since I was little. I cannot lie, no matter how hard I try.” Fishing into her pocket, she held out the ring to him. “I don’t want this.”

“Excuse me?” Ransom’s face scrunched in disbelief. “You don’t want it? Do you know those don’t come with a return policy, especially one that expensive?”

“I don’t care,” Marta gritted out, ring still held out between them. “I don’t want it. I don’t like it. It’s—it’s too much. I can’t even wear jewelry because of my job.”

“What do you mean too much? It’s perfect. I did my research—I even called in a personal jeweler to make it just right!”

“Yes, it is perfect for someone. But it is not perfect for me.” Hand held out, Marta realized Ransom wasn’t going to take the ring. With a burst of confidence she grabbed his hand and dropped the ring in his palm. “I agreed to do this for my family’s sake, for my Mami to get the help she needs to stay here, but I’m not sure I can do it by lying. And that is the truth. I can’t even say I like you as person because I _don’t_.” His jaw tightened as the truth came clamoring out of her mouth like an off track train. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“I see,” he uttered, sharp and crisp. “Saint Mary cannot tell a little white lie without becoming sick. Didn’t know anyone could possess that strong of a moral compass.”

Arms wrapped around her front, she shrugged. “Call if my unfortunate superpower.”

“Then we’ll have to find a loop hole around your ‘unfortunate superpower’ because I am not letting this go. This is an opportunity for both us and we’d be idiots to let it slip by.” His lips morphed together as he chewed the flesh, deep in thought. He gave the grass an aggressive kick with the toe of his shoe. “ _Damn_.”

Shaking his head, Ransom walked off towards the house.

“Where are you going?” Marta called out, hurrying after him.

“I need to talk to my granddad,” he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers even at the distance. “Alone.”

Her feet stuttered to a stop, understanding he just wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Ransom did not both to pause his journey into the house or look back at her.

She didn’t know what he had planned, but Marta knew Ransom wouldn’t go down without kicking and screaming. Insolent children would always be children, no matter the age.

* * *

“How did you get grandmother to fall for your less than charming personality?”

Harlan did not lift his gaze from the mail on his desk. “Ah, hello there. I had a feeling you’d come speak with me. Marta give you back the ring?”

Ransom slammed the study door shut. “What game are you playing here, old man?”

“As for your grandmother,” Harlan began, completely ignoring the question Ransom thrusted in his face mere seconds ago, “I simply was myself, tried my best to make her happy, and _listened_. I always listened. “

“That does not help me,” Ransom gritted out. “Have you tried talking to that woman?” He pointed out to the window, where Marta was still out in the front yard.

“Occasionally; she is my nurse,” Harlan remarked dryly.

“She is all nice and quiet and then she opens her mouth and it is like she says every single thing you don’t want to hear! Pinpoints insecurities without even trying— _who the hell does she think she is_!”

A snort came from the old man. “A woman with a mind of her own. Ever encountered one of those?”

Ransom pouted, eyes glaring down at Harlan.

Sighing, the older man realized he’d have to give his grandson the answer if he was ever going to make progress.

“What did she say, Ransom? Were you listening?”

“Of course I was.”

“Then tell me.”

Ransom huffed, shaking out his shoulders. Yet the anger and frustration continue to rest in him.

“She doesn’t like the ring. Says it’s too much.”

“Maybe for her it is,” Harlan leaned back against his chair, “not everyone lives in your world.”

Marta was not a frivolous woman; was not materialistic, enjoyed simple pleasures in life, and had a heart too kind for such a cruel world. She lived happily in her means, never once complaining about the life she lived. Harlan knew this well.

His grandson, on the other hand, did not. Ransom did not understand the joys of life without money. Did not know how to live a life that wasn’t catered to a price tag. Harlan feared his grandson believed money equal happiness, when such ideology was far from the truth.

Ransom did not know the value of sentimentality. One of which Marta understood a great deal.

He dug into his top desk drawer, producing a small velvet green box from its depths.

It was placed in the center of the desk, pushed towards Ransom.

“What this?” his grandson nodded to the box. Like a skittish animal, he came closer and picked up the box. He snapped it open. “A ring?”

“Your grandmother’s,” Harlan answered, shaking hands clasped on top of is desk. “I always planned to give it to someone in the family, but it never seemed to fit any of their tastes.”

Inside the velvet green box laid a simple pearl and rose gold ring. Braided band connected to the pearl in the center. A classy elegance to the piece, one perfect for Marta. One she’d cherish and take care of, understanding the value was in its history.

Ransom’s nose wrinkled. “It’s a bit…plain.”

“It was all I could afford to get your grandmother when we married. It was her most treasured possession.”

“Oh.” Ransom closed the velvet box and tucked it into his pocket. “I see. And you think Marta would appreciate _this_ more than what _I_ got her?”

Harlan tutted, unamused. “It is not a matter of appreciation—it is a matter of knowing what would be best for her. Try it. If it doesn’t work, then you can go back to your own drawing board.” He began to resume his mail sorting, picking up his pair of reading glasses from his inner jacket pocket. “But fair warning—if you think this little scheme you are concocting is going to work with you putting out the bare minimum, you are sorely mistaken.”

Ransom’s exit was noted by the slam of the door.

Harlan smirked; he won this round, and his grandson knew it.  
  


* * *

The family rarely lingered during the week day. Understandably so. Work and school consumed their time and Harlan would loose his nerve if had to handle his children and grandchildren for more than the designated day and time they all agreed upon.

Ransom, however, decided to be the exception to this unspoken rule.

He lingered around the house all day. Sitting in the living room, reading a book as Marta and Harlan had afternoon tea. He’d be in the kitchen, eating lunch, but sat a few chairs away. Always seeking a way to distance himself, but still be close enough to listen.

Always trying to listen; too curious for his own good.

Harlan never once objected to Ransom’s presence. Instead, he ignored his very existence, playing the silent treatment as though his grandson was not in the room or less than a few feet away from them.

And Ransom kept to himself. Thankfully.

At least that is until it was time for Marta to leave for the day.

“I’ll walk you out.” Ransom leapt to his feet, attempting to catch up with her. His stride matched hers with little effort.

Catching a whiff of his musky-cedarwood cologne, Marta picked up her pace. “That’s not necessary.”

He lifted his own coat from the rack, facing her as he carelessly pulled on the expensive fabric. “I _want_ to.”

She quickly shrugged on her coat and grabbed her purse. “I can walk outside by myself.”

“It’s already getting dark.”

“I am parked less than five yards away, I’ll be fine.” Marta opened the door, prepared to close it on his face.

He braced his arm on the door before she could shut it behind her. “I’m a gentleman, Marta. Let me just walk you to your car, hm?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, she relented. Nodding once, she led the way, hoping to be at least a step ahead so they didn’t have to talk.

A futile hope considering Ransom’s gate was far longer than hers. He caught up to Marta with ease. Locked his arm with hers, like he was some romantic hero from a Victorian novel rather than an arrogant man who wasted time on his own selfish endeavors.

The walk was short and brief, Marta removing her arm from his at once. Hurt briefly flashed in his eyes before schooling back to his usual cool indifference.

“Thank you for walking me,” she said, being polite, “but I need to go—”

“Here.” A green velvet box was held out to her. A gentle offering. “It’s a ring. A _different_ ring.”

Her eyes latched on the box, her right hand taking it despite her better judgement. She began to open the box, but Ransom’s hands stopped her. His larger palm clasped over the back of her hand, far softer and heavier than it’d been in the past.

“You don’t have to open it now,” he told her, eyes trained to the gravel rather than her. “In fact you don’t even need to wear it unless you want to. But it’s a ring and I’m giving you one because we are going to follow through with this. My fiancée cannot _not_ have a ring, got it?”

“Got it.” She wiggled her hand out from his, Ransom releasing her with no issue.

“I’ll stop by again tomorrow. We need to start going over the plan. The wedding date and reception—”

“I thought we decided on a courthouse wedding?”

“Yes,” he rolled his eyes, “but this family would want a little celebration just to say we did something other than sign some papers.”

“I see,” Marta hummed. Fiddling with the box, she tucked it into her coat. “We are really doing this? Even though I cannot lie, you’d still want to go through with marrying me?”

“Yeah,” Ransom gave a nonchalant shrug, acting as though the wedding and relationship bits to their little mess of a plan were no significance, “I’m positive I know a loop hole to your unfortunate superpower.”

She unlocked her car, opening the door to put space between them. “That’s good to know.” Resting her hand on the edge of the door, Marta glanced up to the sky, the afternoon dimming into the evening. “Well, it’s getting late. I need to get going. Goodnight, Ransom.”

Just as she was about to climb into the car, his hand rest on her shoulder. Catching her attention, she looked back up at him, questioning him with her eyes.

He learned forward—all the air stilled in Marta’s lungs. Was he going to—was he going to kiss her? _Now_? Did he not recall the part of the day when she told him she did not like him, at all?

Ransom came closer and closer until—

His lips pressed a feather kiss to her cheek.

“Goodnight, Marta,” he murmured against her skin. His hot breath tickled against her skin, a heat brushing up her neck at the sensation. Pulling away, he nodded to her once and began to head back to the house.

Stunned still, she watched him go.

Ransom coming closer and closer playing on repeat in her mind. Over and over on loop, she feeling her stomach churn in delightful and agonizing rumbles.

The shutting of the front door woke her stupor, she climbing into her car without a second thought. Her brain worked on autopilot as she drove home, her mind trying to shove the vision of Ransom, the feeling of his breath against her skin, and the smell of musky-cedarwood back into the forefront of her thoughts.

It wasn’t until she was parked in her driveway, fiddling once more with the unopened ring box, did she realize he called her by her actual name.

He called her Marta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody know the loop hole? ;)


	4. From Flowers to Courtships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been forever since an update but here is another chapter!
> 
> Typos will be fixed later! Enjoy :D

* * *

Ransom liked to believe he was a decent guy.

Not the best guy, or the right guy, or even a classic good guy.

But a decent guy.

His nanny taught him basic manners, even though she was the help. Such as opening the door for a lady, saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Then from the family chef, he learned what to do and what not to do when courting a woman.

“Flowers always do wonders,” Chef Marco would tell him. He’d ask the gardener to put together some flowers in a small bouquet when Tuesday rolled around, giving him a nice tip—always tip nicely to the people who do favors, that was another thing to take note—and give them to Lucille, his mother’s personal assistant. Chef Marco had always been smitten on Lucille, severing her extra whenever she had to take lunch at the house with his mother.

When Chef Marco would hand Lucille the meager bouquet of daisies and chrysanthemums collected from the gardener, she’d blush and take the vibrant flowers with a small smile and nod. Quiet, sweet, and humble.

Sometimes she’d give Chef Marco a kiss on the cheek and promise to see him later.

It’d been nauseating at the time for an eight year old, but the image stuck with Ransom well into his adulthood. An image that stuck with him as he sent his mother tulips or a fleeting fling some roses when he forgot a birthday or major holiday or some planned dinner he clearly did not give a damn about.

Women liked flowers. Neigh— _Loved_ flowers.

They liked to be thought of, to always be lingered on in the male psyche. A bouquet of flowers was a gesture of love and affection, and could validate those desires woman longed for from men. One where he could implement another language with color theory and flower meanings. Act like he cared enough to look into such boring terminologies and variations to communicate in such a way.

He didn’t.

But hey, a good florist did wonders.

Afterall, his mother and aunts went nuts over such simple and minute actions.

Needless to say, Ransom expected the same from Marta.

(She was a woman. Women liked pretty things. Marta, in a manner of all objectiveness, was a pretty thing. It is honestly a no brainer. Pretty people like pretty things.)

However, he’d been shocked to find the flowers he sent to her home found a way of making the journey to his grandfather’s house. He only discovered this when he came for his Wednesday and Friday visits (a new visit schedule he created without consulting his grandfather, but ya know what, beggars couldn’t be choosers in this case and his grandfather _did_ want him to visit more often) the following week.

Vases in the living room, the kitchen, the study.

All the flowers he sent her every day since last Sunday leading up to Wednesday. All watered and mended and put on display…for everyone else _but_ Marta.

“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath.

“Ah, did not know you’d be dropping by today,” his granddad greeted as he entered the sitting room, a moleskin notebook in hand as well as a novel tattered and loved tucked beside it. He took a seat in his usual arm chair, motioning for Ransom to take a seat somewhere, anywhere. He hated it when his grandson stood and walked around like he owned the place. Ransom, of course knew this, and usually did not comply. “Please sit and not look like an imbecilic standing there.”

Ransom sat down.

But he sat down because he wanted to and not because his granddad told him to—at least that is what he told himself.

“Where’s Marta?”

“She’s your fiancée. Shouldn’t you know?” Harlan reminded him, opening his worn out book.

“She’s your nurse. She’s making sure you are still kicking, old man. Shouldn’t you know?” Ransom picked up a book left on the coffee table, perusing the pages with vague interest.

_Sherlock Holmes. Complete Novels and Stories, Volume 1._

He snorted. Snapped the book shut and tossed it back on the coffee table.

Harlan frowned deeply at the discarded novel. “Marta was reading that. Better hope you didn’t lose her page.”

“She is working for the greatest mystery novelist alive, and she is reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Yes—that makes _perfect_ sense.”

“I suggested the collection to her,” Harlan corrected smoothly. “Just because I am a mystery novelist doesn’t mean she shouldn’t read other mystery novels. Better to know the classics than to never know them at all. That’s something you should know by now.” Licking his finger, he turned the page of his weathered book, glasses perched low on his nose. “What is it that you need from her?”

“Just visiting.” Ransom tugged at a loose thread on his grey cable knit sweater. It unthread around the wrist, he roughly pulling on the strand until it gave out and snapped.

He dropped the thread on the ground, it falling in a disoriented clump on the orient rug.

“You never just visit.”

“I…” he lifted his gaze from his wrist, only to land on the bouquet situated on the coffee table. Roses and white peonies arranged to perfection, baby’s breath scattered in tasteful clusters. It screamed _romance_ —his florist had told him so. “I wanted to see if Marta had been getting my flowers,” he said enunciating each word in a slow, weighted tone; a valiant attempt to hide his animosity towards the apparent fate of his gifts, “I can see now she had and has generously given them to you,” he deadpanned, unamused by the sight of the flowers.

“No one’s ever home, both her mother and sister working,” his grandfather reminded him. “If she placed them in her family’s apartment, they’d end up dead and limp. She’d rather have them here, where they can be enjoyed by others.”

Ransom’s lips pursed, eyeing the arrangement. “I guess I can see why she brought them here.”

“Oh, you can?” Harlan taunted back, a smug twist on his lips, “never thought I’d see the day you saw beyond your own little selfish thoughts.”

A sneer pulled on Ransom’s lips, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue—

“What are you doing here?”

Both men turned to the soft yet bridle intrusion. At the entrance of room, Marta stood holding a burgundy knit blanket in her arms.

“I’d thought I’d visit my granddad and fiancée,” came Ransom’s swift reply. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”

Her jaw locked. Nodding once to him, she made her way to Harlan. “Well, that is kind of you, but Harlan needs to rest.”

The elderly man waved her off. “I’m fine—”

“You are not,” she told him, staring him down in stern, but all too fond manner, “that cough has me worried. We are still in cold and flu season.”

“I had my shot,” Harlan bristled, though with little edge, “I’m sure it will pass.”

She shook her head. “How about one nap and then a game of _Go_?” she bargained.

Ransom didn’t need to listen to the rest of their conversation to know the nurse had won the old man over. Sparing one glance at the two, he saw Marta begin to lead Harlan up the stairs, the two chatting at low volumes.

Far too low for Ransom to bother to eavesdrop.

Stepping out of the sitting room and into the hall, he walked the familiar path to the library. He pushed the rolling doors opened, the natural light from outside flooding the room, drab overcast touching any surface within its reach.

The shine of knives stared back at him, a dull shine to their blades. He turned away, unamused.

Mismatched chairs were spread about, placed for lonesome reading or gathering.

Not that anyone one ever gathered in the library. Except for perhaps Ransom and his granddad, and occasionally Meg when she was a little kid.

The place was a wonderland then.

Wide and open, he could hide in any corner and get lost in a good book. An opportunity to read to his heart’s content—become a hero, a detective, a lost boy. All within weathered and loved pages.

He wasn’t too sure when he stopped seeing the library as his safe haven.

The rattle of the sliding doors echoed off the walls.

Ransom’s lips tucked into a smirk. “Got the old geezer to bed?” He plucked a random book off the shelf— _Ethan Frome_ —flipping to a dog eared page that must have been long forgotten. “Isn’t it interesting how the elderly rely so heavily on the young—as though they are now the children in their old age.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that,” was Marta’s dry reply. Her footsteps gently sounded against the old wood floor. Careful and measured, as though she were afraid she damage the air of the room by her mere presence. “I believe everyone needs help sometimes. Even the most prideful.”

“Like Harlan,” Ransom quipped, stepping out of the rows of books and back into the sitting area. Marta had taken a seat in one of the armchairs, her book he fondled and degraded, in her hand.

Marta did not say a word on the comparison. Instead, she opened her book and resumed reading.

“I see you got my flowers,” he began, coming closer to her.

Lifting her eyes from her book, Marta met his gaze, humming. “I did.”

“And brought them here.”

“I did.” The repeated response grated on him.

“But they were for you, not everyone else who comes and goes here,” he told her point blank. “If I wanted to get my granddad or the help flowers, then I would have done it, but I didn’t. They are for you and you alone.”

Her attention remained on the book, flipping the page. “Did anyone tell you how you are not suppose to ask what someone does with a gift?” Her browns pinched, hands gripping her book tighter. Like an anchor—but a little, old book would not save her from this conversation. Ransom was too determined to let Marta wiggle her way out. “Or scold them on how they used the gift?”

“I—”

“The gift is a gift,” she stated simply, eyes finally landing back on him and not the all too known words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “If it is given of the heart, then it should not matter what I do with the gift.”

He frowned at her.

“All women love flowers. It is a fact.”

Her lips pursed, she chewing on the side of her cheek. “No, it isn’t.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like flowers?”

She shrugged. “I don’t like bribery.”

A petulant scowl formed on his face, Ransom standing up from his chair. “It wasn’t bribery.”

“It was—or whatever else it could be,” she shook her head and shut her book, “I could just tell they weren’t really for me.”

Her words felt like a blow to the chest. She was too smart, far too smart, for her own good.

“I just wanted to show I care,” he tried, hoping the word buttered her up enough to stop with the simmering hostility.

“If you cared, you’d take the time to learn which flowers were my favorite, or if I ever like flowers to begin with.”

“Do you like flowers?” Ransom asked, humoring her.

“I do.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But I prefer leaving them in their bush and admiring them in their natural growth rather than having them on display in a vase to just die in a matter of days.”

“Noted,” he gritted. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“If you are my fiancé as you like telling everyone,” she closed her book, “then please don’t interrupt my work day. I am here to help Harlan, not entertain you.”

“Then let me take you on a date,” Ransom suggested, knowing this might be his only opening to make the offer. “You don’t want me to show up at your house, you don’t want me around when you work, then let me have time to be with you.”

A warm, pinkish hue bloomed on her cheeks. “I’d rather not—”

“Nothing too fancy,” Ransom assured her; if there was one thing he had learned based off her insistent, unenthused reactions to his advances, it was Marta was low-key. Preferred to keep things simple rather than over the top.

Over the top scared her. Made her uncomfortable.

If he was going to play his cards right, he needed to observe. Take note.

“We can see a movie,” he continued, picking up a wooden sparrow figurine. He tossed it up, catching it before it could crash into the rug. “Anything you like. Maybe grab a bite to eat after.”

A shaky exhale ran through her. Standing up from her seat, she tucked her book under her arm, shifting foot to foot. Looking for an escape. “I don’t know—”

Ransom stepped up to her, sparrow still in hand. “It’s just one date. To get to know each other. We don’t even have to call it a date—we can call it a…courtship meeting.” He was more than a little proud of the idea—let her believe they were one of those little Regency and Victorian era couples. The ones who were engaged before they even know each other and fell in love over time. But only one of them would fall in love; Ransom needed to still control the board in this game. Marta just happened to a game piece he needed to capture.

Her brows furrowed. “A what?” she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think…”

“Pick a day, a time, a movie, a place—I’ll be there.”

Lips pursed, Marta eyed him warily.

“Just a movie.”

“No dinner?”

“Just a movie,” she repeated, leaving no room for argument. “Saturday. Five o’clock. The Linton Theater.”

“Perfect.” Ransom grinned before the name of the theater hit him. “Wait isn’t that the—"

Marta nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yes. It is. I’ll see you then.”

Watching her leave the library, Ransom knew one thing—

Marta may not be able to bluff, but she knew how to control the board better than anyone else he ever encountered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOOOOOO IT LOOKS LIKE A DATE IS ON THE HORIZON!

**Author's Note:**

> RANSOM, YOU HEATHEN.
> 
> But this is just getting started.... :D
> 
> FYI, my spanish is a disaster at best and I struggle with it in IRL (my grandmas already drag me hardcore so none of y'all get to do it). So Google Translate helped me a bit, so sorry if the slang is off!
> 
> ** ¿Qué he dicho sobre abrir la puerta así?-- Translation: What have I said about answering the door like that?
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are always appreciated; love discussing the fic with readers :D


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